


Fevers and Needles

by LadySheik



Series: Fevers and Needles [2]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Don't Use Y/N, Extra Whump Tag Without Punctuation In Case The Filter System Is Specific, F/M, I Know It's In The Title, I'm just bad at titles, Jumin and MC Are Married, MC Is Sick Basically, MC is a You, Not Totally Clear On What Exactly A Whump Is, So I Guess Grammarly Is My Beta, So If That Bugs You No Worries, So Second Person Fic Here, The Needle Stuff Isn't A Huge Factor, We Die Like Men, Well I Used Grammarly But I'm Obsessive, Whump, Whump(?), no betas, some soft fluff, they're so in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 00:14:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18083678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySheik/pseuds/LadySheik
Summary: You've been a little sick the last few days, but you're feeling much better and agree to accompany Jumin to a work party. Turns out, though, you weren't as well as you thought.





	Fevers and Needles

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all I know I tagged this as a whump but there are question marks in the tag so if anyone wants to clarify what exactly a whump is, I'd be super grateful. Google is telling me it's physical/mental trauma but I'm seeing a lot of sickness prompts on posts so who even knows at this point. 
> 
> Thanks so much for stopping by, I love everyone who reads my stuff!

You sigh and rub your temple in a way that you hope isn't too overt, or construed as a sign of disinterest. It just hurts so badly. Jumin is talking to a marketing executive from a music label whose name you missed in the flood of information from the night. You shiver, and Jumin arm tightens around your waist. He takes a pause after the end of his sentence to look at you.

 

“Are you cold, darling?”

 

You are, a deep chill that the fluffy white shawl you're wearing can't dispell. A smile forms on your face, even though you know it doesn't reach your eyes. “Yes, a little.” It's more than a little, but there's no need to drag the poor marketing exec – Mark? – into it. After all, the men are wearing suit jackets. She couldn't expect them to notice the chilly air blowing in from the balconies.

 

Jumin's brow furrows, and he slips his arm back to take off his jacket. “You feel very warm,” he remarks, sliding the jacket over your shoulders and taking your shawl.

 

You simply shrug and smile again – it's more sincere this time. The jacket takes the edge off the chill, but you still feel cold. And your head is throbbing, worse than before.

 

A generic excuse removes you from the conversation, and you drift over to the refreshments table. No water – just champagne. You take a flute, repressing the sigh the builds up. Your throat is dry, but the champagne doesn't change that.

 

Jaehee comes to stand at your side, smiling. “Mr. Han is glad that you could come. Are you feeling any better?”

 

You had been under the weather the last few days. It makes you twinge with guilt – you know your husband has been worried about you, and that surely meant more work for Jaehee. This afternoon had been better, though, so you had been happy to come to the party with Jumin.

 

Now, though, you were wondering whether that had been a mistake.

 

“I- uh... Yes, a little.” You shiver under your jacket, trying to focus on something other than the pain in your head. “Is it just me or is it cold in here?”

 

Jaehee frowned. “I don't think so.” She reaches up to place the back of her hand on your forehead, and yanks it back almost as soon as she touches it. “Mrs. Han, you're burning up!”

 

You set the champagne down on the table, suddenly not sure that you can stand in your heels. “Ah. A fever.”

 

The next thing you know, the room is swaying and you fall into blissful, painless dark.

 

 

Jumin finishes talking to Matthew, who claps him on the shoulder as he walks away. He squints at the crowd, looking for your distinctive braided coif. You're standing by the refreshment table, speaking with Assistant Kang.

 

You look pale is his thought as he begins to make his way towards you. Had you looked so wan all evening? Perhaps it was time to call it a night – you were recovering, after all. Perhaps the party had been a mistake.

 

Jumin sees Assistant Kang put a hand to your forehead as he is stopped by a couple. He makes a distracted greeting, still focused on you. Assistant Kang's expression changes from one of mild concern to alarm.

 

If possible, you grow even more pale, and set your glass down with an unsteady hand.

 

Jumin knows in that instant that something is horribly wrong, and he's shoving his way through the crowd, calling your name. Assistant Kang lunges forward to catch you as you fall, and she keeps you from hitting the floor.

 

Your husband stoops to grab you from the other woman's arms, and he immediately kneels on the floor, cradling your shoulders as panic fills his voice. “Darling, darling, I'm here. Wake up, please, speak to me.”

 

He can feel your breathing, but he's still frantic, unable to control his panic. Assistant Kang leaps into action, phoning emergency services as she clears a space around the two of you.

 

Jumin holds you close, one hand holding your waist and the other holding your head against his shoulder. He rocks you back and forth, waiting for the ambulance to arrive and whispering to you.

 

“Please, stay with me, love. Don't leave me. Don't leave. Don't leave.” He whispers the words like a mantra, tears burning the backs of his eyes. You can't leave him. You can't.

 

When the paramedics arrive a short while later, he almost can't bring himself to let you go. When he does, they strap you to a stretcher and he's following them out of the ballroom and stepping into the back of the ambulance, sitting on a bench that squishes his knees and holding your hand.

 

He answers the questions the paramedics ask him. No history of fainting spells. Sick the last couple days, a mild cold. No allergies to any medication. A history of high blood pressure in your family. Asthma – he doesn't have your inhaler with him. Allergic to shellfish – the epipen is in his pocket.

 

Jumin busies his hands by pulling the pins out of your hair. He knows where every last one is – he put them in himself. You had taught him how to make the braids, hours upon hours of patient instruction, how to keep the hair tight, how to open the bobby pins so they could be slipped into the hairstyle without being seen. Your hair was a little tacky with hairspray – Jumin had wanted to forgo it, but you insisted that it was the only way to prevent flyaways.

 

The ambulance stops, and the paramedics rush you out and into the depths of the hospital. Jumin makes his way to the front desk, going through the paperwork to sign you in. It reminds him of last year, when you accidentally ate a clam strip while on vacation, thinking it was an odd onion ring. (Your weakness. You loved onion rings.) He can still see you stabbing the epipen into your leg, and he shudders at the thought. It didn't matter how many times you told him it wasn't even half an inch (fifteen point two millimeters, you had corrected yourself). It was still the worst thing he had ever seen, his wife turning red and splotchy, unable to breathe, stabbing herself in the leg as she tells him to call the ambulance.

 

The receptionist told Jumin to take a seat. He pulls out the messenger app and lets the rest of the RFA know what happened.

 

Jumin settles into one of the chairs, preparing for the wait, however long that might be.

 

 

You can feel the needle in your arm the minute consciousness decides to grace you with its presence. It's not cold, which tells you that it's been in your arm for a while. You sigh, not opening your eyes, and listen to the heart monitor.

 

A hand squeezes yours, and you open your eyes. Jumin is sitting in the chair next to the bed, running his thumb across your knuckles. There are dark circles under his eyes and his hair is a mess. He's never looked more beautiful.

 

“Hey.” Your voice is a croak, but that doesn't stop Jumin from smiling as wide as his face will allow.

 

“Hey,” he says, Korean accent slipping through on the English.

 

“Guess I wasn't as well as I thought I was.” You shift your arm and wince as the needle moves with your arm. You were accustomed to needles, but that didn't mean you had to like them.

 

Jumin's smile disappears. “The doctors say that you had a fever of 102 and climbing when they admitted you,” he says, switching to Korean.

 

Your eyes widen. “That high?”  
  


His face is grim. “That high. It was touch-and-go for a while, trying to get the fever to break. It was hovering around 104 by the time it did.”

 

“How long have I been in the hospital?”

 

Jumin doesn't respond for a few minutes. “You've been in here for two days.”

 

You let out a breath. “That's... wow.” The two of you are silent for a while, and you bring his hand up to kiss it. It smells and tastes of hand sanitizer.

 

“The doctors are fairly certain that you're over the illness, but they'd like to keep you another day just in case. After that, they'll release you on the condition that you are confined to strict bed rest and liquid meals.”

 

That makes sense, and you nod. You must have been severely dehydrated, between the fever and the alcohol. Probably a saline drip coming through the needle. You're wrapped in your own thoughts when Jumin speaks.

 

“I thought I'd lost you.”

 

Your head snaps up, and you blink rapidly at the exhaustion and the traces of fear that still linger in his expression. He holds your hand like it's made of porcelain, as if he's scared to break you.

 

Hospitals were familiar places for you. You had a weak constitution as a child, and your asthma had you in and out of various sterilized rooms. They were simply another place. But you forget that your husband doesn't have your experience with hospitals.

 

You kiss his hand again, holding it to the hollow of your throat. “I'm sorry I scared you. I didn't realize I was still sick.”

 

He lets out a deep sigh. “It's not your fault. I should have been more careful.”

 

You scoot over, a little surprised at how much effort it takes, and tug on his hand, patting the bed next to you. He looks surprised for a minute, but he takes off his shoes and climbs in, shifting you so he can cradle you to his chest.

 

“Don't beat yourself up about it, okay?” you whisper, looking up at him. “You couldn't have known.”

 

He buries his head in your hair. “I just love you so much.”

 

“I love you too.”

 

You sit like that as the hours pass, sunlight casting shadows around the room. Everything is quiet, and the whole room smells like disinfectant.

 

You close your eyes and allow yourself to drift to sleep.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really liking this particular voice for MC... let me know if y'all are interested to learn more about her. I might write some more just because she has an easy voice. Plus teaching Jumin to braid a coif would be a super good fluff fic... But yeah, if y'all wanna read that (or have suggestions) just leave a comment and I'll put it higher on my priority list.


End file.
